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THE LOST GIRL
of a hawthorn hedge. How often, how many springs had Miss
Frost come home with a bit of this black-thorn in her hand!
Alvina did not want to go to Mansfi eld that afternoon. She
felt insulted. She knew she would be much cheaper in Madame’s eyes. She knew her own position with the troupe would
be humiliating. It would be openly a little humiliating. But
it would be much more maddeningly humiliating to stay in
Woodhouse and experience the full fl avour of Woodhouse’s
calculated benevolence. She hardly knew which was worse:
the cool look of insolent half-contempt, half-satisfaction with
which Madame would receive the news of her fi nancial downfall, or the offi cious patronage which she would meet from the
Woodhouse magnates. She knew exactly how Madame’s black
eyes would shine, how her mouth would curl with a sneering, slightly triumphant smile, as she heard the news. And she
could hear the bullying tone in which Henry Wagstaff would
dictate the Woodhouse benevolence to her. She wanted to go
away from them all – from them all – for ever.
Even from Ciccio. For she felt he insulted her too. Subtly, they all did it. They had regard for her possibilities as an
heiress. Five hundred, even two hundred pounds would have
made all the difference. Useless to deny it. Even to Ciccio. Ciccio would have had a lifelong respect for her, if she had come
with even so paltry a sum as two hundred pounds. Now she
had nothing, he would coolly withhold this respect. She felt he
might jeer at her. And she could not get away from this feeling.
Mercifully she had the bit of ready money. And she had
a few trinkets which might be sold. Nothing else. Mercifully,
for the mere moment, she was independent.
361
DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
Whatever else she did, she must go back and pack. She
must pack her two boxes, and leave them ready. For she felt
that once she had left, she could never come back to Woodhouse again. If England had cliffs all round – why, when there
was nowhere else to go and no getting beyond, she could walk
over one of the cliffs. Meanwhile, she had her short run before
her. She banked hard on her independence.
So she turned back to the town. She would not be able to
take the twelve-forty train, for it was already mid-day. But she
was glad. She wanted some time to herself. She would send
Ciccio on. Slowly she climbed the familiar hill – slowly – and
rather bitterly. She felt her native place insulted her: and she
felt the Natchas insulted her. In the midst of the insult she
remained isolated upon herself, and she wished to be alone.
She found Ciccio waiting at the end of the yard: eternally
waiting, it seemed. He was impatient.
“You’ve been a long time,” he said.
“Yes,” she answered.
“We shall have to make haste to catch the train.”
“I can’t go by this train. I shall have to come on later. You
can just eat a mouthful of lunch, and go now.”
They went indoors. Miss Pinnegar had not yet come down.
Mrs. Rollings was busily peeling potatoes.
“Mr. Marasca is going by the train, he’ll have to have a little cold meat,” said Alvina. “Would you mind putting it ready
while I go upstairs?”
“Sharpses and Fullbankses sent them bills,” said Mrs.
Rollings. Alvina opened them, and turned pale. It was thirty
362
THE LOST GIRL
pounds, the total funeral expenses. She had completely forgotten them.
“And Mr. Atterwell wants to know what you’d like put on
th’ headstone for your father – if you’d write it down.”
“All right.”
Mrs. Rollings popped on the potatoes for Miss Pinnegar’s
dinner, and spread the cloth for Ciccio. When he was eating,
Miss Pinnegar came in. She inquired for Alvina – and went
upstairs.
“Have you had your dinner?” she said. For there was Alvina sitting writing a letter.
“I’m going by a later train,” said Alvina.
“Both of you?”
“No. He’s going now.”
Miss Pinnegar came downstairs again, and went through
to the scullery. When Alvina came down, she returned to the
living room.
“Give this letter to Madame,” Alvina said to Ciccio. “I shall
be at the hall by seven tonight. I shall go straight there.”
“Why can’t you come now?” said Ciccio.
“I can’t possibly,” said Alvina. “The lawyer has just told me
father’s debts come to much more than everything is worth.
Nothing is ours – not even the plate you’re eating from. Everything is under seal to be sold to pay off what is owing. So I’ve
got to get my own clothes and boots together, or they’ll be sold
with the rest. Mr. Beeby wants you to go round at seven this
evening, Miss Pinnegar – before I forget.”
363
DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
“Really!” gasped Miss Pinnegar. “Really! The house and the
furniture and everything got to be sold up? Then we’re on the
streets! I can’t believe it.”
“So he told me,” said Alvina.
“But how positively awful,” said Miss Pinnegar, sinking
motionless into a chair.
“It’s not more than I expected,” said Alvina. “I’m putting
my things into my two trunks, and I shall just ask Mrs. Slaney
to store them for me. Then I’ve the bag I shall travel with.”
“Really!” gasped Miss Pinnegar. “I can’t believe it! And
when have we got to get out?”
“Oh, I don’t think there’s a desperate hurry. They’ll take an
inventory of all the things, and we can live on here till they’re
actually ready for the sale.”
“And when will that be?”
“I don’t know. A week or two.”
“And is the cinematograph to be sold the same?”
“Yes – everything! The piano – even mother’s portrait – ”
“It’s impossible to believe it,” said Miss Pinnegar. “It’s impossible. He can never have left things so bad.”
“Ciccio,” said Alvina. “You’ll really have to go if you are
to catch the train. You’ll give Madame my letter, won’t you?
I should hate you to miss the train. I know she can’t bear me
already, for all the fuss and upset I cause.”
Ciccio rose slowly, wiping his mouth.
“You’ll be there at seven o’clock?” he said.
“At the theatre,” she replied.
And without more ado, he left.
Mrs. Rollings came in.
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THE LOST GIRL
“You’ve heard?” said Miss Pinnegar dramatically.
“I heard somethink,” said Mrs. Rollings.
“Sold up! Everything to be sold up. Every stick and rag!
I never thought I should live to see the day,” said Miss Pinnegar.
“You might almost have expected it,” said Mrs. Rollings.
“But you’re all right, yourself, Miss Pinnegar. Your money isn’t
with his, is it?”
“No,” said Miss Pinnegar. “What little I have put by is safe.
But it’s not enough to live on. It’s not enough to keep me, even
supposing I only live another ten years. If I only spend a pound
a week, it costs fi fty-two pounds a year. And for ten years, look
at it, it’s fi ve hundred and twenty pounds. And you couldn’t
say less. And I haven’t half that amount. I never had more than
a wage, you know. Why, Miss Frost earned a good deal more
than I do. And she didn’t leave much more than fi fty. Where’s
the money to come from – ?”
“But if you’ve enough to start a little business – ” said Alvina.
“Yes, it’s what I shall have to do. It’s what I shall have to do.
And then what about you? What about you?”
“Oh, don’t bother about me,” said Alvina.
“Yes, it’s all very well, don’t bother. But when you come
to my age, you know you’ve got to bother, and bother a great
deal, if you’re not going to fi nd yourself in a position you’d be
sorry for. You have to bother. And you’ll have to bother before
you’ve done.”
“Suffi cient unto the day is the evil thereof,” said Alvina.
“Ha, suffi cient for a good many days, it seems to me.”
365
DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
Miss Pinnegar was in a real temper. To Alvina this seemed
an odd way of taking it. The three women sat down to an uncomfortable dinner of cold meat and hot potatoes and warmedup pudding.
“But whatever you do,” pronounced Miss Pinnegar; “whatever you do, and however you strive, in this life, you’re knocked
down in the end. You’re always knocked down.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Alvina, “if it’s only in the end. It
doesn’t matter if you’ve had your life.”
“You’ve never had your life, till you’re dead,” said Miss Pinnegar. “And if you work and strive, you’ve a right to the fruits
of your work.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Alvina laconically, “so long as
you’ve enjoyed working and striving.”
But Miss Pinnegar was too angry to be philosophic. Alvina knew it was useless to be either angry or otherwise emotional. None the less, she also felt as if she had been knocked
down. And she almost envied poor Miss Pinnegar the prospect of a little, day-by-day haberdashery shop in Tamworth.
Her own problem seemed so much more menacing. “Answer
or die,” said the Sphinx of fate. Miss Pinnegar could answer
her own fate according to its question. She could say “haberdashery shop,” and her sphinx would recognize this answer as
true to nature, and would be satisfi ed. But every individual has
his own, or her own fate, and her own sphinx. Alvina’s sphinx
was an old, deep thoroughbred, she would take no mongrel
answers. And her thoroughbred teeth were long and sharp. To
Alvina, the last of the fantastic but purebred race of Houghton, the problem of her fate was terribly abstruse.
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THE LOST GIRL
The only thing to do was not to solve it: to stray on, and answer fate with whatever came into one’s head. No good striving with fate. Trust to a lucky shot, or take the consequences.
“Miss Pinnegar,” said Alvina. “Have we any money in
hand?”
“There is about twenty pounds in the bank. It’s all shown
in my books,” said Miss Pinnegar.
“We couldn’t take it, could we?”
“Every penny shows in the books.”
Alvina pondered again.
“Are there more bills to come in?” she asked. “I mean my
bills. Do I owe anything?”
“I don’t think you do,” said Miss Pinnegar.
“I’m going to keep the insurance money, any way. They can
say what they like. I’ve got it, and I’m going to keep it.”
“Well,” said Miss Pinnegar, “it’s not my business. But there’s
Sharps and Fullbanks to pay.”
“I’ll pay those,” said Alvina. “You tell Atterwell what to put
on father’s stone. How much does it cost?”
“Five shillings a letter, you remember.”
“Well, we’ll just put the name and the date. How much will
that be? James Houghton. Born 17th January – ”
“You’ll have to put ‘Also of,’” said Miss Pinnegar.
“Also of – ” said Alvina. “One – two – three – four –
fi ve – six – Six letters – thirty shillings. Seems an awful lot
for Also of – ”
“But you can’t leave it out,” said Miss Pinnegar. “You can’t
economize over that.”
“I begrudge it,” said Alvina.
CHAPTER XI
HONOURABLE ENGAGEMENT
For days, after joining the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras, Alvina was
very quiet, subdued, and rather remote, sensible of her humiliating position as a hanger-on. They none of them took much
notice of her. They drifted on, rather disjointedly. The cordiality, the joie de vivre did not revive. Madame was a little irritable, and very exacting, and inclined to be spiteful. Ciccio
went his way with Geoffrey.
In the second week, Madame found out that a man had
been surreptitiously inquiring about them at their lodgings,
from the landlady and the landlady’s blowsy daughter. It must
have been a detective – some shoddy detective. Madame waited. Then she sent Max over to Mansfi eld, on some fi ctitious errand. Yes, the lousy-looking dogs of detectives had been there
too, making the most minute enquiries as to the behaviour of
the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras, what they did, how their sleeping
was arranged, how Madame addressed the men, what attitude
the men took towards Alvina.
Madame waited again. And again, when they moved to
Doncaster, the same two mongrel-looking fellows were lurking in the street, and plying the inmates of their lodging-house
with questions. All the Natchas caught sight of the men. And
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THE LOST GIRL
Madame cleverly wormed out of the righteous and respectable
landlady what the men had asked. Once more it was about the
sleeping accommodation – whether the landlady heard anything in the night – whether she noticed anything in the bedrooms, in the beds.
No doubt about it, the Natcha-Kee-Tawaras were under
suspicion. They were being followed, and watched. What for?
Madame made a shrewd guess. “They want to say we are immoral foreigners,” she said.
“But what have our personal morals got to do with them?”
said Max angrily.
“Yes – but the English! They are so pure,” said Madame.
“You know,” said Louis, “somebody must have put them up
to it – ”
“Perhaps,” said Madame, “somebody on account of Allaye.”
Alvina went white.
“Yes,” said Geoffrey. “White Slave Traffi c! Mr. May said it.”
Madame slowly nodded.
“Mr. May!” she said. “Mr. May! It is he. He knows all about
morals – and immortals. Yes, I know. Yes – yes – yes! He suspects all our immoral doings, mes braves.”
“But there aren’t any, except mine,” cried Alvina, pale to
the lips. “You! You! There you are!” Madame smiled archly, and
rather mockingly.
“What are we to do?” said Max, pale on the cheekbones.
“Curse them! Curse them!” Louis was muttering, in his rolling accent.
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DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
“Wait,” said Madame. “Wait. They will not do anything to
us. You are only dirty foreigners, mes braves. At the most they
will ask us only to leave their pure country.”
“We don’t interfere with none of them,” cried Max.
“Curse them,” muttered Louis.
“Never mind, mon cher. You are in a pure country. Let us
wait.”
“If you think it’s me,” said Alvina, “I can go away.”
“Oh, my dear, you are only the excuse,” said Madame, smiling indulgently at her. “Let us wait, and see.”
She took it smilingly. But her cheeks were white as paper,
and her eyes black as drops of ink, with anger.
“Wait and see!” she chanted ironically. “Wait and see! If we
must leave the dear country – then adieu!” And she gravely
bowed to an imaginary England.
“I feel it’s my fault. I feel I ought to go away,” cried Alvina, who was terribly distressed, seeing Madame’s glitter and
pallor, and the black brows of the men. Never had Ciccio’s
brow looked so ominously black. And Alvina felt it was all
her fault. Never had she experienced such a horrible feeling:
as if something repulsive were creeping on her from behind.
Every minute of these weeks was a horror to her: the sense of
the low-down dogs of detectives hanging round, sliding behind them, trying to get hold of some clear proof of immorality on their part. And then – the unknown vengeance of
the authorities. All the repulsive secrecy, and all the absolute
power of the police authorities. The sense of a great malevolent power which had them all the time in its grip, and was
watching, feeling, waiting to strike the morbid blow: the sense
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